


Defying Gravity

by UNeven



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Enjolras is hella political cause that's who he is, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Temporary Amnesia, and hugs and soup and partial nudity, barricade boys turned to hacktivists, protests and marches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 01:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9526235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UNeven/pseuds/UNeven
Summary: It says a lot about Grantaire's life that getting involved with a gang of genius hacktivists and passionate social justice fighters is the second weirdest thing he's done in the past year.It is of course easily topped by him harboring their leader -the particular brand of crazy and ruthless activist that is Enjolras- when he gets his head bashed in during a protest. And Grantaire is not even going to mention the huge, undignified crush he's had on the guy, probably before he even met him. He is not going to mention that. Decidedly not.Especially when the subject of all his latest wet dreams is sprawled on Grantaire's couch, watching the news and biting his lower lip absently.





	1. Night in St. Cloud

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya
> 
> So I was wondering what would the barricade boys be doing today and protesting social injustice as hacktivists sounded too accurate. Also, there's some online chatting happening and everyone is using their aliases, in it. So like... Grantaire is 'R.' and Enjolras is 'Apollo' etc.
> 
> Also, every chapter is named after a famous painting cause Grantaire is an Art student and I got too excited. First chapter refers to Edvard Munch's 'Night in St. Cloud'. Check it out if you like ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, don't forget to leave a comment to let me know how oblivious I am about US politics and/or hacktivism. 
> 
> Cheers!

Grantaire stares at the chat terrified. He gets up. Running a hand through his hair, he scans the room like he’s looking for something, under the piles of spray cans and layers of old newspapers. An escape route maybe, back to the normal world where he drinks and gets in trouble for damaging public property, not for anti-government activism, “for fuck’s sake!”

He says the last bit out loud just to vocalize how absurd this whole situation is. He paces around the place, kicking brushes and paint cans on his wake, avoiding the laptop screen like the plague. I mean, sure, Grantaire has been in the official _ABC_ forum a few times. He’s sneaked in the private members-only chats for the fun of it, he knows a couple people, mostly online.

And _sure_ he likes to argue about these things, argue, let it be noted, mostly _against_ the romantic idealism behind every _Les Amis_ project. He gets that this is a tense time, with Lamarque dead and his campaign turned on its head and twisted to resemble something terrible and terribly different than before. So _Les Amis_ are furious and determined to take action. No, he gets that this was a desperate move on their part. He _does_.

Grantaire takes his phone from the table and actually calls Eponine. It only rings twice before her deadpan voice reaches him. “What?” She drawls.

The chair squeaks as he collapses back into it, a little calmer just by hearing her voice. “Okay what the _fuck?_ ” His voice grows higher with every syllable.

“What happened R?” She demands and he can’t even have a nice, slow freak-out with her, that’s his life.

“Did you know they were going to ask me? _Me?!_ ” He repeats, plucking the cork out of the closest wine bottle and taking a long sip to calm himself. And then a second one, because wine, duh.

Eponine has the nerve to snicker at that, like it is all a big joke to her. A huge prank.

“Wait, is it a prank?” He says cause it can’t hurt to ask, in the off chance they are actually messing with him for a laugh. Grantaire wouldn’t put it past Courfeyrac.

“It’s not a prank, R.” She shatters his last hope with that. “They know about you, you’ve been around and Courf might have seen some of your street art. It’s a good cause, R.”

Eponine keeps repeating his nickname as if that would trick him into agreeing just from sheer familiarity and comfort.

“Are you going to join?” He mutters in a weaker tone, like a shy child. Then he thinks better of it. “Have you _already_ been helping out?” She doesn’t reply so he is forced to probe further “ _have_ you?”

There is silence from the other side of the line and Grantaire feels like pacing again. Eponine has been his best friend since high school, all through the Bad Year and the Very Bad Year. They’ve shared so much. Secrets, joints, a stained old couch for six months at uni, when they slept back to back until one of them gave up and slipped to the floor.

He bailed her and Gavroche out when they got caught picking stuff from tourists and she took him to the hospital that one time he drank too much and got high and couldn’t stop shaking or puking. He supported her when she dropped off uni and broke it off with her family and she supported him when he decided to be a broke hipster art student.

He does not want to make this into a big deal, but actually becoming an active member of Les Amis is serious and risky and he doesn’t think he can afford to bail her out or get her a good lawyer, especially if he is occupying the next cell in line.

Confirming his worst fears Eponine says, “Um, yeah?” And she barrels on after that, “I mean they’re great people, R, you’d know if you met them, Courf and Ferre and Marius-”

Of course it’s about Marius, he’s not even surprised. Still he doesn’t want to rub it in, so he counters instead with “I don’t care if they have wings and halos or, I don’t know, robes and lightsabers, it’s a dangerous thing to do. Not to mention completely futile.”

“Well, I think it’s going to work. I think people will listen, _have_ to listen, and if anyone can speak the facts, that’s _Les Amis_.” It sounds like this conversation is actually going nowhere. He should have known that, like a hound, Eponine does not let go of something she has sunk her teeth in if it kills her. “You can join or you can tell them to fuck off, it’s up to you. I’ve made my decision.”

Grantaire grits his teeth, wondering what is this amazing plan that got even her excited enough to take action. Eponine who usually snickers and refuses to cooperate and thinks every ideology is at least 60% crap.

He mutters a curse under his breath and begins to resign to the idea. Eponine must have realised too because she huffs a laugh and tells his almost teasingly now, “I’m off to bed now Van Gogh,” Grantaire is not impressed by the pet name but smiles fondly just because and points out that “At least it’s not Picasso.” Cause he knows that she only remembers a handful of artists and she still had the good sense to go for Van Gogh.

“At least join one of the offline meetups before you decide!” She calls out before he hangs up.

Grantaire, after ten more minutes of pacing, turns back to his laptop screen where a few more messages have popped up. He reads everything again just to reach that particular peak of dry sarcasm that he needs to reply.

 **< GUIDE >** If they are changing Lamarque’s site I *need* to know. I can’t just write code for a site that is not up yet.

 **< laigle >** probably gonna look like another government page mate can’t you use your usual code?

 **< GUIDE >** What is a *usual* code? I've got my army of bugged computers now I want a specific target, so I can make it short and efficient. 

 **< C+Enter >** we’ll know soon enough dude. chillax will u?

 **< Jollly >** who the fuck says chillax anymore?

 **< R. >** for a dude who still makes knock knock jokes Jollly has got a lot to say about 90s slang

 **< C+Enter >** R my man preach

 **< Jollly >** knock knock jokes are ingenious, chillax is just a reminder that we all once watch Teenage Ninja Turtles in our briefs.

 **< R. >** can’t fight back the memories

 **< GUIDE >** Can we talk about my code for a bit?

 **< C+Enter >** no shut up

 **< Apollo >** What is the problem now?

 **< Jollly >** just discussing the use of the word chillax

 **< R. >** bet it’s a foreign concept for Apollo

 **< Jollly >** you said it

 **< Apollo >** You can open a new chat for that. This is the place where we have serious conversations.

 **< laigle >** then why is Jollly allowed here?

 **< Jollly >** u suck

 **< laigle >** only if you ask real nice

 **< Apollo >** We don’t have time for this. Don’t you have anything better to do instead of flirting like teenagers?

 **< C+Enter >** yesh yesh we do.

 **< C+Enter >** right R can I have a word?

 **[ < C+Enter> has requested a private chat]** 

 **< R. > **hey man, what’s up? am i in trouble?

 **< C+Enter > **hey no way dude. just wanted to ask for a favour.

 **< R. > **right, what is it about?

 **< C+Enter > **um u know how we r all fired up about lamarques funeral march yesh?

 **< R. > **hah GUIDE won’t shut up about the DDoS attack he’s planning. and Apollo is going on and on about the march and the awakening of the ppl. free speech and the bill for children protection and all that jazz.

 **< C+Enter > **huh u never talk much about these things so i thought u were coming here just for kicks

 **< R. > **oh i am

 **< C+Enter > **have u thought about being a proper member?

 **< R. > **what of Les Amis?

 **< C+Enter > **well yesh. they r making a fucking mural for lamarque man like serious shit is going down.

 **< R. > **they’re hijacking the hero of the ppl i get it

 **< C+Enter > **we r taking the monument down 

**< R. > **oh wow you’re not joking around

 **< C+Enter > **and we r replacing it with our own thing. the people honouring lamarque that kind of thing

 **< R. > **sounds like something Apollo would say

 **< C+Enter > **probably has. now then what do u think?

 **< R. > **good luck man i’d join but the e-vite said nil about free drinks so.

 **< C+Enter > **we thought maybe u could work on that. the mural. u r an artist yesh? Ponine said u ve done expos n shit. I saw pics of ur graffiti man n u got game

 **< R. > **w8 what

 **< C+Enter >** guess i gotta come out n say it. do u wanna join the band? be a friend of the wronged and the debased? we can seriously use ur help man.

 **< C+Enter >** les amis will get u whatever u need obvs.

 **< C+Enter > **so what do u think?

 **< C+Enter > **R?

 **< C+Enter > **HEY is that a no?

 

Grantaire grimaces at the messages which are getting more and more impatient, messes his hair again and eyes the wine bottle morosely, like it was supposed to step up and answer for him, but it just fucking won’t. The music major girl from next door is blasting ‘Listen to your Heart’ from her computer and he takes a moment to dread for the future of music. He runs his fingers through that mark on the wooden top of his desk, which he didn’t take part in carving.The perpetrators, whoever they might be, didn’t even scratch a name or a couple of initials on the wooden surface. Only this stupid long line, like a scar. Something just to inflict damage.

And now he’s stalling. Why is he hesitating? Grantaire is already used to being a disappointment to others. And honestly, if the world is often disappointed in him, he is fucking unimpressed by the world most of the time, alright?

And say, okay, say he actually joins these ridiculous hacktivists and makes a silly sculpture for a dead politician, like they want him to - like it’s the fucking nineteenth century- then what? Is this masterpiece going to affect anything at all? Or is this bunch of kids going to deliver the final blow to this shitty social system by temporarily shutting down a couple websites and yelling in a few protests. If that is all it takes, someone else in the past hundred years would have made it.

No, this is just a hobby to these people, just a cause to make them feel important and justified and not as clueless as the next frat boy. Grantaire has heard about them. Comp sci and law and med students, trust fund babies or funded to their ears with scholarships cause they’re all geniuses. What do they even know? In a few years they will all graduate and get into corporate law or go work for Google and this will become just a silly phase in college.

Well, he wants no part of it. Grantaire’s current mood is drunk and grumpy and his goals include finishing uni and maybe making enough money to survive and buy his own drinks at bars, instead of flirting with strangers for a free gin and tonic. He refuses to get into trouble for the helpless cause. Enough is enough.

 **< R. >** sorry can’t help you man.

He writes because he doesn’t exactly hate Courfeyrac. At least he’s a fun dude, playful and warm.

 **< C+Enter >** oh okay

 **< C+Enter >** no thats fine

 **< C+Enter >** i know its a lot to ask

Grantaire tries not to think about how he sounds deflated even through the computer screen. He feels a tiny pang of guilt at that, he’s not a complete dick.

 **< R. >** i’m not that good anyway, thanks for the offer but you’ll find someone better

 **< C+Enter > **hah doubt it but ill let u off cause ur cool

 **< R. >** it’s just not for me

 **< C+Enter >** no yesh i get u. not every1 can dive headfirst into these things like Apollo

 **< C+Enter >** u got ur life

 **< C+Enter >** but ur welcome to join the next f2f meetup if u like

 **< C+Enter >** just 4 fun u kno

 **< R. >** isn’t it kinda bad that you show your faces in meetups? i thought you guys worked mostly online

 **< C+Enter >** Apollo says f2f is good to build trust in the group. plus we go to marches n protests we show our faces plenty. that man is only happy with a mike and a crowd

Grantaire guesses ‘that man’ is the leader of _Les Amis_. That particular brand of crazy obsessed socialist, known as Apollo. He’s seen his speeches on different chats in the _ABC_ forum and in public-access blogspots and Grantaire won’t lie, he’s contagious.

With the clear tone of a born orator, he reports facts, percentages and throws in Derridean quotes, but always ends his speeches with moving catchphrases like ‘This injustice will be amended and if it not amended, then it _will_ be repaid’ or ‘We were not given a voice to stay muted’.

Apollo, named after the god of light and truth, the perfect young poet, has method to his ruthlessness and passion in his logic. Grantaire has read his fair share of ethical philosophy and has cursed over enough political speeches to know Apollo is good at both. Good and cunning.

He writes about government bills and campaigns the way someone discusses the most popular new movie or a very disturbing piece of horror fiction. Excitement and fascination and humour if it’s good, or harsh adjectives and graphic descriptions and wild emotion if it is bad.

When Apollo addresses a crowd, virtual or real, he does it to remind people of the pain, to expose their wounds, to inflict realisation. By the end of his text though, you find yourself staring at an ugly world and seeing it set ablaze with cathartic fire.

Grantaire considers the contrast of lightness and darkness in early expressionism, the constant shift between the sun and the shadows. All those painfully luminous moonlights that Munch painted cutting through the night. Then he thinks of Apollo, whom he’s only met online, talking to a crowd. He frowns.

 **< R. >** Ponine said she’s coming to the next meetup.

Grantaire points and it feels a safe enough comment, without any commitment to it.

 **< C+Enter >** ofc Ponine will be there. she’s ace. master of stealth. mistress. u kno what i mean.

 **< R. >** i’ll kill you if you get her in trouble.

 **< C+Enter >** cmon man give us some cred. pontmercy and ferre r mad protective over her.

Grantaire wants to write something about Marius’ protectiveness, just to be mean and bitter on Eponine’s behalf, but he doesn’t. Not because he’s a better person than this, he’s not, but he doesn’t think Courfeyrac will get it. And even if he does, he won’t be able to share the feeling.

 **< R. >** i don’t know if i believe you

 **< C+Enter >** well then u gotta come check on her yesh?


	2. Vesuvius in Eruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo there,
> 
> Thanks so so much for the comments and the love, it really encouraged me and made me fuzzy inside!  
> I will try my best to update weekly for you guys ;)
> 
> This time, the chapter title was take from a collection of paintings called 'Vesuvius in Eruption with a View over the Islands in the Bay of Naples' by Joseph Wright. Check them out, google them, I don't know...  
> I've seen one up close and it was SO cool. 
> 
> Oh and enjoy!

A breath catches in his throat and Grantaire feels his chest hollow out.

All in all, he is not a fan of the Romantics. He had a Nineteenth Century Art class last semester most of which he spent dozing off, except for the brief breaks he took to draw dicks on the faces of dead, white men whose biggest sin was being so unnervingly boring. That being said, he is now thinking of them with intention, his mind shuffling through hundreds of different landscapes and faces to find the one he is looking for.

There was this one British guy. Grantaire bites his lower lip anxious to figure the name. Joseph Something, looked a bit like a dumpling.

Right.

Joseph Wright. Yes. That’s the name.

Joseph Wright visited Italy once and witnessed the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Or at least that’s what Grantaire thinks, he might have napped during the introduction.

Joseph Wright, a boring man with moderate talent, was so mesmerised and captivated by the sight of the volcano erupting, that he decided to turn the moment into a painting. And then another one. And another one.

In the end, he made over thirty paintings of the night Vesuvius erupted. _Thirty_ paintings of that same detailed landscape. Spent so much time mixing gray and red and golden and a bit of pink to paint the hot lava gushing out and spreading on the land.

Over and over and over again.

Like his passion and his need for it was so deep-rooted that he had to keep going. Continuously trying different angles, hiding the moon behind clouds so that the only light in the sky would come from the volcano surging to life. Drawing tiny people under the mountain, too struck and captured by the sight, to run and save their lives.

Grantaire had admired Wright’s dedication, but couldn’t imagine what blind obsession led him to cover canvas after canvas with the same image of the same place in that particular moment in time.

Now, as he stands by the entrance of Cafe Musain, clutching his coat with one fist of paling knuckles, he thinks he finally understands.

And he is stalling again, dancing around the topic because he doesn’t fucking know how to breach this. He’s afraid of his own thoughts, of the way they could go off the rails and crash like the proverbial train.

In the middle of Musain is a blond guy, probably Grantaire’s age, although he looks ancient and immortal, and he is speaking to a small group of people. Grantaire looks around him suspiciously, wondering if this is all part of a detailed prank, if all the people in the room are hired actors whose sole purpose is to act like they are not affected by this man, just to mess with Grantaire’s head.

Is no one else seeing this...this ridiculous human being? Is no one else feeling their chests constricting, their heads throbbing as the guy says in a powerful voice, “We will not postpone it. We cannot wait for the one-year anniversary. Our people have been betrayed. The foundations Senator Lamarque has laid are crumbling. We cannot just wait and watch as they shatter to the ground.”

The guy looks guttered and livid, the ends of his hair sticking at the back of his neck and his dark eyes shining with a feverish glimmer. Like this is a literal crumbling of hard stone and concrete; like he is watching his home succumbing to an earthquake. Again Grantaire imagines the figures of the people who helplessly stared at the burning volcano, imagines he looks very similar to them at this moment.

And he knows by now that this is Apollo. He could recognise this passionate and violent speech anywhere. The blog posts had prepared Grantaire for the overflowing emotion and the imperial tone, but he did not expect they would be accompanied by a tall, lean figure with broad shoulders and strong arms. One of his palms is lying open on the table where he probably just crashed it in frustration. Grantaire follows with his eyes a couple of veins that run from Apollo’s wrist, all the way up to his elbow and hide under his wine-red shirt. He feels his mouth going dry.  

“Governor Voltaire is speaking of Lamarque’s legislative endeavours as if they were all part of his own brilliant plan. The more we wait the more time he will have to limit Lamarque’s Foster Care and Child Protection Bill with inter-state laws. He already has a Replacement Senator at hand and we all know Javert will be parroting Voltaire’s words in the Congress. We will not sit and wait-” Apollo has smooth, blond hair, pushed back from his face and curling at the ends. He has a perfect set of eyebrows frowning in concentration and a sharp jawline that Grantaire wants to run his teeth over.

And Grantaire is no longer paying attention to the speech. He knows he should, a lot of interesting things are being said and it is hard to ignore his voice anyway, but it is even harder to miss the way Apollo’s black jeans tighten around his thighs. Grantaire is terrible at multitasking.

He’s a fucking artist, for fuck’s sake, he’s trained to follow body lines, to chart all the little wrinkles and all the soft curves. He can’t help it and he can’t stop. He wants to paint this, sculpt it, sink his fingers into wet clay and trace this jaw, the wrinkled forehead, the burning eyes. He could put light on the side of his face, highlight the cheekbones and the jawline right under his earlobe. But the eyes have to be shadowed. It’s tempting to make them clear blue, but accuracy be damned, obsidian with just a glimmer of silver is what he’ll do, just like bullets. Grantaire could do that. He _has_ to.

Eponine elbows him and hands him a drink and he knows he’s in deep trouble when he doesn’t even look at the glass, just downs it. His throat burns and this finally pulls him out of the trance.

They watch together from the entrance of Musain as Apollo pauses and another man starts talking. Grantaire has only met him once, still it’s hard to forget this emotional manipulation combo of bushy hair and hopeful doe eyes which the guy has probably patented. “I think Enjolras is right. We should do it on Lamarque’s funeral march. It’s a short notice but we can gather a good crowd. We’ll post the event in a couple pages, hand out posters at local universities.” Courfeyrac has a few papers scattered on the table in front of him but he doesn’t even look at them. He just nods off at people, his mouth pursed in a bold and assuring smile.

Then he looks expectantly to his left. “And how is your part gonna play out?” He asks as if the person he is addressing will know exactly what this is about and will speak on cue.

He does.

It’s a tall guy, with short hair and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. He’s got really full lips, a blank face and the kind of chocolate skin that Grantaire loves painting. The guy says, “Our main goal is to take down the new webpage they are putting up for Lamarque’s campaign and relaunch the Senator’s original website. I’m doing the DDoS attack. I’ve already got a worm in a few thousand computers, now I just need to see the new page and decide _how_ to flood their servers. Joly and Bossuet are relaunching the old website.”

Grantaire has heard enough about programming in the past months he’s been in _Les Amis_ forums to know that creating an army of ghost computers in a few days is no small feat, so he smiles and dares a look at Apollo’s direction just to check his reaction.

The leader looks somber and only nods. “How long is it going to take to redesign the original site?”

“Psst, we’re not just redecorating the place, Chief, we’re rewriting the whole site. We are _improving_ it. There won’t be another government page as cool as this one.” A slender kid declares and raises a glass with his free hand. He has dark hair, thick at the top of his head and shaved at the sides. His smile is devilish, like he might burst out laughing any time soon, but he might also cheat in poker and kiss someone in the face while he’s at it. Or punch them. It’s very confusing.

Apollo raises an eyebrow and repeats, “Yes, but how long? A day?”

“Twelve hours.” A smaller guy with short spiky hair and a meek smile interjects.“Unless of course there’s a glitz. Or our external disks burn again. Or I lose my lucky cat statue.”

“Quit jinxing it Bossuet.” The thin, wiry kid from before leans on the guy’s, Bossuet’s, shoulder and flashes a smile at Apollo. “Twelve hours is more than enough.” He agrees.

“You dimwits are forgetting that there is no way to long-distance access the government servers. How are you going to launch this amazing page you’re designing?” Someone says and Grantaire has to look around for the owner of the voice. He scans the room and his eyes finally settle on a girl lying against a wall by the pool table, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She’s got perfect proportions, all curves and naturally good posture and a crown of dark curls around her thin face. She sneers and Grantaire stares admiringly at the corner of her heart-shaped lips where a bit red lipstick is smudged. Even that looks charming.

The thin kid glued to Bossuet pouts. “Musichetta!” He whines at her, yet it leaves the girl, Musichetta, completely unaffected.

Then he sighs and straightens up. “We can hack into their server if we get close enough. The Town Hall employee’s use state-provided servers, right?”

This question makes everyone shuffle on their feet a little. Courfeyrac rubs the back of his neck nervously, Bossuet makes a weak squeaky noise, the guy with the glasses sighs, someone coughs over their drink and even Apollo tilts his head in consideration.

“What?! People go to the Town Hall all the time.” The guy shrugs.

Grantaire hears a barking laugh and turns to his right to see a pretty huge guy, all muscles and piercings (multiple earrings and nose rings and eyebrow piercings) cackling gloriously next him. “Joly are you going to break in the Town Hall and hack their computers?” He calls out, still laughing.

Grantaire chuckles too, because of course the lanky and slightly deranged guy is Joly. It makes so much sense.

“I don’t actually need to use their stupid computers, Bahorel, I’ll bring my baby with me. I just need to be close enough to log into their server.” Joly bites back.

“That’s a break-in.” The guy with the glasses says and Grantaire is starting to recognise this lawful and slightly uptight manner. Probably Combeferre, he thinks.

“No, that’s the best idea I’ve heard in ages! Joly, you’ll need a distraction. I can come in, cause a bit of havoc. Shred some important papers, doodle on some passports, throw a stink bomb at them while I’m at it. That will keep them off their desks for a few hours.” The Bahorel guy rubs his hands, like a supervillain from a Mickey Mouse cartoon and Grantaire gapes, wondering how he could have missed him at the forum.

“Let’s take a deep breath here. I don’t think anyone has thought this Town Hall plan through.” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, like someone just proposed eating yogurt with a fork, not trespassing in a government building.

There’s an unexpected weariness in Apollo’s voice when he speaks next. “We can talk about the details later, in a private chat.” It sounds like a sigh and a hiss and a warning all wrapped up in one. “This is just a casual meetup anyway.” He adds and if this sudden change in behaviour was around 40% suspicious a moment ago, it goes up to about 70% now. Because Apollo just used the word ‘casual’ to refer to what just went down, like he wasn’t slamming hands on tables and speaking about the demolishing of morals five minutes ago. Of course, the  weirdness skyrockets when he fixes his piercing eyes on Grantaire and fucking stares.

It’s a long, unreadable look that makes Grantaire want to stumble backwards and maybe put his jacket back on and zip up, cause he feels fucking exposed.

He buries his face into his drink instead and waits for it to end. Thankfully, Eponine is there next to him and as soon as it becomes obvious that the ‘casual meetup’ has ended, she begins talking about something and he pretends to listen. They’ve got this half-conversation down to a fine art. Eponine rants about this or the other dick at work and he agrees emphatically with her even though he has no idea what it is about. To be fair, she is right about most things and she makes up for getting it wrong occasionally by being so terrifying that no one dares call her out on it.

Grantaire is in the middle of his second gin and he is listening to whatever Eponine is frustrated about, something about a jammed stapler and an intern that got too worked up and cried at her. He is humming in agreement when he feels people approaching. He slowly raises his head and regrets the decision as soon as he catches sight of Apollo, accompanied by Courfeyrac and Probably-Combeferre.

“Eponine, hey!” Courfeyrac smiles and gives Eponine a one-arm hug. He looks at Grantaire with sparkly eyes and is about to greet him when he is interrupted by Apollo’s curt, “Who is _this_?”

Grantaire blinks. Eponine raises an eyebrow and Courfeyrac, clueless as he is, pats Grantaire’s shoulder and explains that “This is R, you _know_ R, from the forum. He’s the artist-” He’s about to blurt something out about Grantaire declining their invitation to join the group and refusing to create a replacement mural for Lamarque and this is really unacceptable so Grantaire cuts him off. “Grantaire! You can call me Grantaire. That’s my name.”

Probably-Combeferre shakes his hand and if he is annoyed or disappointed at him, he definitely does not show it. “It’s good to finally see you in a meetup. I’m Combeferre, my alias is Guide.”

Now, Courfeyrac and Definitely-Combeferre glance at Apollo expectantly. And they all wait.

And wait.

“Yes, nice to meet you. My name is Enjolras.” He finally say, all flat vowels, and Grantaire scoffs at how blatantly insincere it sounds.

The penetrating look that he gave him a minute ago has turned completely cold and indifferent now, like he’s not even looking at Grantaire, just past him. Like he’s staring _through_ him at something very interesting behind his back.And just to put the last nail in the coffin Enjolras adds, “Although I doubt we’ll be seeing each other much.”

Grantaire gapes. Mouth falling open slightly, because he cannot help it. Not being in a hot guy’s radar is one thing, _this_ is another thing completely. Enjolras does not even register him as a significant human being worth exchanging _words_ with. And it doesn’t sting exactly, but it’s still a blow, kind of like being pushed back until you fall on the floor. Grantaire feels the air getting knocked out of his lungs.

Some of it must be showing on his face and Courfeyrac definitely elbows Enjolras in the ribs, which prompts him to justify this further by adding, “You just don’t come across as the kind of person who takes this seriously.”

And without another word, Enjolras turns to talk to Eponine (much more politely, Grantaire notes) and Courfeyrac pats his shoulder again. It’s almost comforting this time. “Don’t take it personally, he’s just in a mood.”

Courfeyrac offers to get him another drink and Grantaire tries to sound enthusiastic at the prospect.

It’s not a mood.

In the next few meetings, Enjolras completely ignores him, except for the suspicious glance once in a while and a biting comment about how it’s a complete shock that Grantaire doesn’t have ‘anything better to do with his evenings’. So he knows by next week that Enjolras is not just moody, or having a bad day, or a bad week. Enjolras just seems to be naturally suspicious and unwelcoming when it comes to Grantaire. He is the most beautiful person Grantaire has ever met and he genuinely hates him. For unknown reasons.

When he tries to subtly slip the question to Courfeyrac, the guy completely denies the possibility that the Chief (they call him ‘Chief’ and it’s accurate and adorable and it makes Grantaire sad cause he can never get away with saying it) is mad at him. In fact he is straight up appalled at the idea that Enjolras might actually hate him.

“He’s just cautious with new people. He’ll warm up to you.” He tells Grantaire over beers at the Musain one night, almost two weeks after that first meetup. “He’ll get over it.”

He doesn’t explain what there is to get over and Grantaire doesn’t dare to ask. He just wonders whether it is even possible for Enjolras to warm up to _anyone_ , let alone the one shabby dude that he completely ignores. Enjolras is the erupting Vesuvius after all, he doesn’t warm up, he only burns. He is Apollo, the immortal god who only looks down on normal people’s fears and hesitations. Courfeyrac said a man like this will get over it.

He doesn’t.

And if Grantaire was a self-respecting adult he would quit going to meetups that no one invited him to and he would find something better to do with his evenings. Maybe he’d go on a date with the guy from Studio Practice who is really good with his hands. He would fix his face into a severe frown and tell Enjolras that he has done nothing wrong and doesn’t deserve this treatment. He’d act like a grown man that only forms honest and meaningful relationships with people who appreciate him. Not like some sullen teenager, so insecure that he has to resort to petty arguments and pigtail-pulling to catch someone’s attention. Yes, if Grantaire had any self-preservation skills, he would just back out after that first meetup.

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know, it's slow.  
> I just wanted to get across how amazing and amazingly frustrating Enjolras is. Hopefully the chapter-long rant helped. I tried.  
> Also, as I said before, the writer does not share the opinions given by the characters nor does she condone their actions. Especially Bahorel. The guy's a wildcard.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> (leave a comment, tap the heart, share the love)


	3. The Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!
> 
> So I know this took longer than a week, BUT it is a pretty massive chapter. Cause I want to make up for the delay, I'm not a monster, okay?  
> I'm really very happy for the comments and the bookmarks and all that love you guys are showing this fic. 
> 
> Thank you guys and enjoy!

It’s 5.30 on a Saturday morning and Grantaire is perched next to a dumpster behind the Boston City Hall, looking out for passerbys, like a proper criminal underling. Next to him, Joly and Bossuet are working on their laptops, the screens lighting up their faces in the dark. They are sitting back to back, looking comfortable at each other’s presence and completely unconcerned about anything or anyone else.

Grantaire would feel left out, if he didn’t know they were actually hacking into an airtight government server to reupload Lamarque’s old campaign website. There’s cables and portable computer bits lying around the two men, getting tangled in their legs like ropes or roots and Grantaire can barely resist the urge to pull out his sketchbook and start drawing. Probably in charcoal, he thinks, and then mix up some pale watercolours, emerald green and siren blue coming out of the screens and washing their faces in colour.

He’s doing a pretty good job at forgetting that he has become an accomplice to some grade-A cybercrime. He gets distracted by the way Bossuet’s head falls back on Joly’s shoulder and Joly smiles quietly at his laptop but they both keep up their pace, typing with such swift and accurate movements that Grantaire can barely see their fingers moving. It feels more like watching two dudes playing WoW on their living room floor (and also engaging in some pretty sweet foreplay), than two hacktivists breaking into a server while lying behind a dumpster.

At least they didn’t have to break in the City Hall, or use Bahorel’s stink bombs. Grantaire is a champion of small victories. And to be fair, everything is going well so far with the whole website relaunching for the funeral march. Bossuet hacked into the City Hall employees Intranet through a bug he placed at some spam mail and now Joly is using a higher-up’s passwords to get access to the government database. Or something like that. Grantaire doesn’t really understand everything and whenever he tries to ask, Joly makes fun of him for being a ‘skiddie’. He is not particularly offended though, because Joly sounds fond when he says it and also Grantaire has no idea what the word means.

The rhythmic and hollow tapping of keyboards has managed to calm him down a bit and no drunk college students have tried puking near their dumpster in the last half hour (it has become their dumpster, they’ve shared some moments together) so it seems like a peaceful stillness has settled around them.

Unfortunately, this seems to be the perfect cue for Grantaire’s mouth to start working without his permission. “So why does Enjolras hate me?” It’s a silly question, laced with too much annoyance and insecurity to be taken as a joke and he wants to take it back as soon as he says it.

For a moment he thinks his wish has been granted, because neither of the guys replies. And then of course they both do at the same time.

“He doesn’t!” Bossuet exclaims affronted, as Joly shrugs, replying with, “He thinks you don’t give a shit about the cause.”

Bossuet elbows him, “Joly!”

“Not to bust your bubble here, but most people don’t. This is why Javert is becoming Senator and you guys are hiding behind dumpsters, breaking the law.” Grantaire deadpans, crossing his arms.

Joly gives him a side-glance and rolls his eyes. “Sure, but most people don’t mess with Enjolras’ head on a daily basis in the ABC chat.”

Grantaire is pretty sure no one can possibly mess with Enjolras’ head. The snarky jerk is just saying it to rile him up. What Joly should have taken into account, if he really wanted to keep Grantaire on his toes, is that the only messing he’s interested in doing to Enjolras is very, very literal. Forget about arguing with his social change policies, Grantaire is more interested in running a hand through the other guy’s neatly styled hair and messing them up as he pulls the other guy closer. He’d much rather trace Enjolras’ hipbone with the base of his palm and crumple Enjolras’ shirt as he drags it upwards over his stomach and then his chest, instead of countering his arguments about the assimilation of marginalised groups.

Grantaire licks his lips at the vivid imagery that he inflicted on himself and clears his throat. “I do no such thing.”

The point is that none of that is happening between the two of them. Not the messing of clothes or the messing of heads. Joly believes he exerts some kind of influence on their Chief, which Grantaire clearly does not.

The lanky kid goes back to typing, but he can’t seem to shut up about it. “Yes you do. First you were all sarcastic and clever, pulling him in cause he can’t help confronting scepticism. And then you refused to make his stupid mural or graffiti or whatever, but you still showed up at the meetups. You drank and you made fun of his sentimental speeches and - no, let me finish, you know it’s true - you wolf-whistled when he said ‘things are getting hard.’ Like a fucking teenager.”

Grantaire did. It was pretty hilarious at the time, especially because he got to see Enjolras almost blushing under the perma-frown.

Now he huffs in frustration. “You mean he hates me because I didn’t make a fucking mural? I’ve only been a proper member for two weeks, what are you guys expecting?”

“No, we’re not expecting anything. Shit! Are you kidding me, It popped an error message again!” Joly stares at the laptop screen and grimaces, typing furiously after a momentary pause. “No, I mean, we all think you’ve helped a lot already and just having you here lightens the mood anyway. But Enjolras has a one-track mind. There’s this bright future that he’s set his eyes on and he won’t take a break until he makes it happen.”

Grantaire can’t help it, he snorts. “Right. I don’t think he’ll be taking a break anytime soon then.”

“And that’s why he hates you.” Joly concludes and Grantaire has nothing to say to that, so he falls silent again and tries to recover that relaxed atmosphere they had going on before.

It’s not working. His head is full of thoughts now and he has no one else to blame cause he asked for it.

He thought maybe if someone gave him a clear explanation about Enjolras’ perspective on things, he’d be able to understand. More than that, he was hoping to hear something different. That perhaps the Chief doesn’t hate him, but only feels awkward towards new people. Like, maybe he had some misconception about Grantaire which could be easily cleared up. No, Grantaire is not a double agent, sent to spy them on behalf of Senator Javert. No, Grantaire does not actually support the hegemony. Or wars or capitalists.

Apparently, that’s not what’s causing Enjolras to ignore him. He is not misunderstanding Grantaire, if anything he sees him for who he is. A bored artist in the verge of alcoholism who knows how crap the world is, yet makes no attempt to change it. The type of bitter coward who belittles people’s sincere efforts, because if his life is fucked up, then so must be everyone else’s. He’s just another immature jerk who got mixed up in a social justice fight because he really, seriously wanted to bone someone. And Enjolras picked up on that. Not the boning, unfortunately, but pretty much everything else.

Grantaire is keeping himself busy with intricate thoughts of self-loathing, when Bossuet’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

Bossuet pauses his typing and mutters in the calmest tone Grantaire has ever heard from him, “This is not going to be good. I never get good-news calls in the middle of the night. Ever.”

He picks it up anyway and listens patiently to whoever is at the other end of the line. Bossuet nods and doesn’t bat an eyelash.

“At his house? Mhm… Did they confiscate his hard drive or his laptop?” He asks and that makes Joly stop typing and turn to look at him with an incredulous look.

“Typical.” Bossuet says unfazed. Grantaire would bet real money that there is nothing typical about what happened. Real money.

“What about you guys? Was anyone arrested?” Bossuet continues and by now Grantaire is on his feet and is starting to pace, ignoring the numb feeling on his knees from having been sitting for too long. Oh this is bad. He can’t believe that his first attempt in anti-establishment hacktivism is going to end this badly. There won’t even be a chance for him to learn and grow from this mistake, he’ll be in federal prison, doing sexual favours for a bottle of whiskey before he can say ‘skiddie’. The only hope he has left is that the experience will scar him enough to give him plenty of angsty material to paint in the future.

The next piece of information must be even worse cause even Bossuet, the self-professed Master of Bad Luck, splutters, “Wait who is missing? Define ‘missing’. Have you called Feuilly? Musichetta?” Then he removes the phone from his ear and calls out to Joly, “Stop writing, we’ve got a problem. Courf says they lost Enjolras.”

After dropping that particular bomb he goes back the phone call mumbling to the person on the line something about stopping the operation and he nods some more and Grantaire tries to stop imagining himself as the protagonist in the male rendition of Orange is the New Black. Only, he wouldn’t even be the protagonist. That would be Enjolras, of course. He forces himself to breathe. Maybe, maybe it’s not as bad as he thinks it is.

Only, of course it is.

Bossuet hangs up, takes the battery off his phone and promptly throws it in the dumpster, like it is no big deal. He taps away at his screen and then shuts the computer off as well. Thankfully the laptop doesn’t follow the phone in the dumpster - Grantaire thinks he might weep if that happened- but instead he puts it in his discarded backpack.

“So what happened?!” Grantaire is sure he will have a very immature freak out if he doesn’t find out in the next five seconds.

There is a sort of crinkly wariness forming around Bossuet’s eyes as he explains, “The police barged in Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment. They said they got a noise complaint.”

“Bullshit.” Joly hissses.

“Well yeah. That was definitely an excuse. Anyway, they talked to Ferre for a whole hour, stalling obviously. There was no noise, not even the TV was on, so they had no reason for a house search. Which means the computers are safe and nothing was confiscated.” Grantaire thinks this is pretty good and he’s not sure why neither Bossuet nor Joly look relieved.

Joly fills in the blanks in a severe tone. “But they completely ruined Combeferre’s DDoS attack, didn’t they?” 

The other guy nods. “He had to shut everything down and, knowing him, he probably set the system on high alert and half of his programs self-destroyed before the police patrol rang the doorbell twice. So no DDoS attack. He probably won’t be able to recover the data he got rid of.”

Grantaire somewhat understands what Bossuet is on about. Combeferre had to clear his own computer in case it was taken for investigation by the police and now he has lost hold of his zombie army of bugged computers that he was planning to use to take down the campaign website. And if Combeferre cannot take down that ridiculously misleading website, there is no room for Joly and Bossuet to launch their own, custom-made website.

“Are you kidding me? This ruins everything!” Joly barks and shuts his laptop screen. “How did they even find the Chief’s house?”

More importantly, Grantaire realises, if they know where two of the founding member of Les Amis live, it is only a matter of time before they track everyone else down. Then he comes to a very different realisation. “Wait, did you say Courf couldn’t find Enjolras?”

Bossuet straightens up at this. “All of them were out at the other side of the city, preparing for the march. Last time they talked to him, the Chief had left Combeferre at home and was heading there to meet them. He was supposed to be there an hour ago but he never showed and his phone is off.”

“Do you think the police got hold of him? Or maybe Javert finally went rogue and hired a hitman.” Joly looks between the two of them with an expression of horror but also barely restrained fascination.

Grantaire gives him a withering look. “Does he often get arrested like that?” He asks raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

Bossuet considers it, “Only during a protest. Never before it.”

They all look at each other for a long moment, reality sinking in. Grantaire can see the anger and disbelief and restlessness going through Joly and Bossuet’s faces like film frames. “Shit, the whole march is ruined, isn’t it?” Bossuet blinks and it looks like he might cry.

Joly on the other hand is suddenly livid. He throws the laptop and all the external drives in a backpack and gets up. He stomps up and down the narrow alleyway cursing and then stops, staring up at the imposing building of the City Hall. “Fucking idiots! It was going to be a peaceful march. What’s up with all the dirty tricks?” He kicks the dumpster and then crouches down from the pain.

“Babe…” Bossuet puts a hand on the other guys bony shoulder, but this only serves to anger Joly further. He raises his head to glare at Bossuet.

“What?! Because we hacked into their stupid server and tried to post a political website. It was to honour Lamarque. I made it that way. We did nothing to harm people. And now we’re treated like petty criminals. A noise complaint? What a joke! And what if they hurt Enjolras? I’ll fucking kick all their asses.” He yells and Grantaire looks around to make sure that no one heard them.

Joly doesn’t care though, he goes on shouting until his voice goes hoarse and all he can do is cough out the last part of his rant. “We did nothing bad. Lamarque has helped up us all and we had to give something back. How could they?”

Grantaire feels something twisting in his stomach, a hollow sadness, but also a sense of foreboding. It’s a bad feeling, like hearing sirens in the distance, or crossing a busy street without checking for cars. Although nothing really bad has happened yet, they’re in a precarious position. And as he pictures ghost cars dashing around him, the dizzying noise of their engines echoed in his rapid heartbeat, he knows that soon he won’t be able to avoid them. That’s what happens when you’re standing in the middle of the street.

A familiar sound stirs him from his thoughts. It’s a ringing noise, means someone is calling again. He waits for Bossuet or Joly to pick up but they only look back at him. Which is when he realises that they both threw away their phones and therefore it is his own cell phone that’s ringing.

He shuffles in his pocket and pulls it out, picking up without really checking the Caller ID. “Hello?” He asks. There’s muffled voices and doors creaking and general shuffling and then a clear voice cuts through it all to say, “Is this Grantaire?”

Grantaire’s eyes widen in shock. “Enjolras?!”

“Yes, that’s me. Look, I need you to do something. I know you can’t care less, but I had no one else to call. It’s something only you can do.” Enjolras recites calmly and Grantaire senses his face heating up. This might be the nicest thing he has ever heard from Enjolras. Not to mention it’s the longest the guy has ever talked directly to him.

“Hey, are you still there? Did you hang up?” Enjolras sounds grumpier now, his tenor voice going low and coarse.

“What is it?” Grantaire doesn’t mean to sound petulant or mean-spirited, it’s just so embarrassing, he’s worried that if he speaks more he might give himself away.

“Okay, right.” Enjolras clears his throat. “I need you to come bail me out. I’m at the precinct down Richmond Road. Do you think you can do that?”

He adds the question in the end as if Grantaire is a clueless idiot who doesn’t understand what bailing someone out means. “No, I can’t. I just picked up to laugh at your misfortune.”  He bites back because he doesn’t think Enjolras would ask Courf or anyone else whether they could manage to bail him out. He’s probably convinced Grantaire is useless.

“Wouldn’t put it past you.” Enjolras mutters and someone yells something at him in the police station.

“In how much trouble are you in? Do you need a lawyer?” He decides to be the bigger person in this situation.

“Grantaire, I’m a law student and a pretty good one at that. I’ll be fine. I just need someone to confirm my identity and pay my fine.” He sounds so high and mighty saying that like he’s not just been arrested by the police. Grantaire is pretty sure you’re not supposed to be so condescending to the person responsible for your freedom.

“I’m broke though.” He admits sheepishly.

“Just go to my place and get my wallet from Ferre.” Enjolras explains and then adds hurriedly, “But don’t bring anyone else with you. You must come on your own.”

Grantaire messes his hair and tries to keep his heartbeat from speeding. Meanwhile, Joly and Bossuet are making weird hand gestures at him, probably dying of curiosity. He gets it actually. He can understand why Enjolras said only he should go to the police station.

It’s because Grantaire is not a proper member of Les Amis, so they can’t track the others using him. Even if they were to arrest him too or barge into Grantaire’s flat with a noise complaint (probably a justified one this time) he wouldn’t be able to give anything away about their hacking operations. Enjolras called him, not because he trusts him, but because he figured it’d be okay to expose him to the police. Because Grantaire is not useful to the cause, Enjolras doesn’t need to protect him.

That’s probably fair, Grantaire thinks. He can take one for the team. “I got it, but you know I won’t be able to get you out on time for the march, right?”

Enjolras huffs at the other end of the line, “Of course you won’t. They made sure of that.”

They hung up like that and for once Grantaire does as he is told.

He gives Joly and Bossuet the Short Version of the Story and then he takes the bus to Combeferre and Enjolras’ place- the bus cause he’s broke and the huge crisis Les Amis are facing is not gonna make him any richer. Which is what he tells Combeferre when the latter asks why he didn’t take a cab there. Apparently, Combeferre and Enjolras don’t need to get any richer, judging by the size of this apartment and the small pack of money Grantaire is handed unceremoniously to pay Enjolras fine.

He doesn’t take a cab to the precinct in Richmond Road either. It’s a protest against consumerist capitalism, he tells himself, not a way to clear his head and prepare himself for whatever he is going to face there.

What he faces there is a pretty busy precinct, one that he has never visited before. Everyone seems somewhat agitated, from the pushers fidgeting at the chairs by the door, to the agitated faces of the people in the tiny cells, to the cops pacing about the place, barking angry warnings at anyone who dared raise their voice.

“Hello?” He talks to a baby-faced police lackey and the guy almost jumps at the spot.

“Yes? Can I help?” The kid at the reception asks dutifully.

“I’m here to bail someone out.” Grantaire explains and gives Enjolras’ name. The kid in uniform types something in his computer, after a minute he looks back at Grantaire with furrowed eyebrows. He asks for Grantaire’s name and ID, finds him in the police database, marvels at the chain of vandalism charges and drunk and disorderly arrests and becomes properly suspicious of the whole affair.

This is exactly what Grantaire was worried about. With his track record, he will definitely be red-flagged as a violent activist and every time there is a protest, the cops will be camping outside his apartment.

“Can I just pay the fine and get my friend out?” He feigns boredom but the kid doesn’t buy it.

“The case is still under investigation. Detective Listolier is still examining the evidence to decide if he will press charges.” The innocent-looking guy says.

“Seriously?! Come on, it can’t be that bad. What did he even do?” They all know what Enjolras did to be dragged to police station, but if they are not going to say it, Grantaire sure as hell won’t.

Enjolras actually says it and it is not what Grantaire expected. They finally let him see the Chief after half an hour of waiting and when Grantaire asks him the same question, Enjolras rolls his eyes and says, “Vandalism. Apparently, I attempted to graffiti the walls of the Hepworth Community Centre.”

Grantaire chokes between a snort and a gasp. “Pfft, what?! I didn’t know you could spraypaint.”

The blond crosses his arms. “I can’t. I don’t understand the first thing about art.” And he narrows his eyes at Grantaire, waiting for him to connect the dots on his own.

Vandalism. Not anti-government plots. But vandalism. Enjolras cannot spraypaint and clearly dislikes anything artistic. Combeferre’s DDoS attack was disrupted. The march is off.

“You were framed to stop you from making a speech at Lamarque’s funeral march?” Grantaire tries and the blond seems satisfied with that deduction cause he nods and his fingers loosen their hold on the cell bars a little. He hadn’t realised Enjolras was holding onto them so tight, pulling himself as close to Grantaire as possible, until he stops doing it. It obviously means Enjolras is not feeling as frantic and frustrated as he did when they started talking, but it’s a shame he had to show it by moving away from Grantaire.

Enjolras’ Short Version is that he was heading to the meeting point, where he and the others would prepare some banners and signs. So he was carrying some paint and a couple sharpies in a duffle bag. That’s when a bunch of cops stopped him in suspicion of vandalism, examined his bag and confiscated it. No, he didn’t actually use any of the paint on any of the walls. No, that did not stop them from arresting him.

“Well, that’s insane.” Grantaire thinks this is an appropriate reaction.

“They have no evidence of vandalism, they can’t charge me with anything. Worst-case scenario I’ll get out with a warning and a fine. They’ll let me out.” Enjolras assures. “But not before the funeral march is finished.”

It’s 7 in the evening when Detective Listolier, a slimy man with permanent smirk on his face, orders for Enjolras to be released with a fine and it’s not his own decision at all. Because at 6.50pm Senator Javert walked in, dressed in his trademark crow black look, and headed straight for Enjolras’ cell.

Doing some more dot-connecting, Grantaire figures out that this is why everyone had been so tense all day. Senator Javert is the former Police Commissioner and it’s pretty obvious he still has plenty of influence on the police force of the city. Enough to make cops make illegal, unwarranted arrests, apparently. Grantaire feels a bit like he’s in a movie.

Senator Javert, with his black coat floating behind him as he walks, approaches the holding cell just as Enjolras stands up to face him.

“We missed you at the funeral today.”Javert smiles all white teeth in an animalistic show of power. “It’s unfortunate that you got into trouble and couldn’t honour the man you always admired.”

There’s a dangerous gleam in Enjolras’ eyes, but he doesn’t say anything back. Every muscle on his face looks tense, like he is barely staying in control and not yelling something back.

“That’s what happens when a kid from a good family get involved with the wrong crowd.” Javert continues, his smirk somehow widening even more and Grantaire feels his own anger rising.

“First there’s protests and destruction of public property, then those really, really unacceptable thing you say on the Internet.” Javert shakes his head in theatrical regret.

“You know, you’re lucky you were arrested. Imagine if you’d joined the march today and started a riot!”

Grantaire thinks he hears Enjolras hiss something, but Javert keeps going unaffected. “Riots are really dangerous, I assure you. People shouting and breaking things - it won’t be long before they start getting into fights like animals. One moment, you’re talking to the crown and the next you are pushed down and trampled on. Or a derailed protester comes behind you and smashes a beer bottle on your head. Terrible things could happen.”

Grantaire cannot believe his ears, can’t believe that this is actually being said by a Senator inside a police station. He looks around him for someone else to say something or try to stop this, but everyone is suddenly very busy with their own jobs and pointedly ignoring them.

Javert tilts his head to the side and gives a final unblinking look at Enjolras. His pleasant facade is gone now and what’s left is a face empty of any emotion, just brutal determination to destroy anything or anyone in his way. “People die in riots. ”

“Hey!” Grantaire calls out desperately, because he cannot just sit here and watch this.

Without even turning to look at him, Enjolras hisses to him, “Shut up. Stay out of this.”

“So let’s say you were lucky today, since you missed the march. From now on, I’d suggest you and your friends,” Javert motions at Grantaire’s general direction, “continue missing these unsafe events.”

And with that he turns around and leaves.

Enjolras hasn’t said a single word. He goes out of the cell, when they open the door and signs his release documents in completely silence. Meanwhile, Grantaire’s mind is settling into a consuming sensation of dread. He feels like grabbing Enjolras and fleeing the scene, or maybe the state, going somewhere safe where the law works and people are allowed to speak about what is wrong and be heard.

When they are outside the precinct, the sun has already set and the orange street lamps are the only light source as they walk down Richmond street. Enjolras doesn’t ask to take a cab either, even though he can definitely afford it.

“Are you finally going to lay off?” Grantaire asks, only to calm the uncomfortable stirring in his stomach.

Enjolras turns to stare at him and speaks for the first time in a while. “Excuse me?”

“You heard Javert.” He bites out. “Next time it won’t be just a few hours at a cell. You have to lay off their case.”

The blond raises a judgemental eyebrow. “No.”

“No?! What does that mean? You were threatened, you know. Like for real. With physical harm, you can’t be that thick.” He really can’t be this foolish. A genius Law student, from a good family with a bright career ahead of him should be getting a grip on reality by now. This is the point where the natural fear for his own well-being should be kicking in and Enjolras should be saying, ‘you know what, screw this, I did what I could, now is the time to join the Debate Society’.

Cause he could be doing that. The Chief doesn’t need the _ABC_ to become someone important and influential in the world. He’s already got the intelligence and the resolve to help people and preserve what is good, without needing to risk his life in protests and hacking attacks. He can become one of those lawyers who offer their services for free to people who can’t afford to pay for legal advice. He can become a journalist and question the status quo in his articles. He can even give away a bit of his money to charities and that would be fine. All these options are good and helpful to society and do not involve beer bottles at the back of his head. So what’s so bad about these options?

“Yes, I got that.” Enjolras says in an even tone.

Grantaire nods his approval. “And?”

Enjolras insists, “We continue as planned. Today was a failure but there will be more chances soon.”

“Oh no way! No fucking way! Are you saying you’re willing to put yourself in actual danger to protest for a cause you can’t even affect?” Grantaire yells at the blond, forcing himself to glare straight into his beautiful eyes. He doesn’t quite manage that, so he drops his eyes to Enjolras’ white shirt, smudged with dirt and dust from that stinking cell. No matter how much he keeps his back straightened and his voice clear, Enjolras is a mess now. His hair is disheveled and keeps falling on his face, even as he pushes it back. His clothes are starting to smell and he hasn’t eaten anything all day. More than that, he was insulted, treated like a lowly criminal and threatened.

“They threatened me.” For the first time since Grantaire met him, Enjolras looks back at him and his lips turn into a small, half-smile. Even in his current state of disarray he is breathtaking.

“Exactly.” Grantaire says in a desperate tone.

“That means it’s working.” It’s something Grantaire never thought of and the statement takes him by surprise.

“Wait, what?” He asks.

“Whatever we are doing is having an effect. Big enough for Javert to use threats like this.” Enjolras points out, leaving little room for questioning.

So naturally, Grantaire presses for more answers. “And when they realize these threats?”

“We will face them head-on.” For Enjolras, it’s as simple as that.

But Grantaire can’t accept how twisted everything is becoming. “Are you saying we should use violence? You’ve always demonstrated peacefully. You chose not to stoop so low!”

“Political violence-” Enjolras sighs, unhappy with the words, pushes his hair out of his face for the hundredth time today and tries again. “The uproar of the people is not a choice, Grantaire. Violence is an epidemic. People’s lives are being violated. We are facing violence and violence is contagious. Fire doesn’t choose which tree to burn, it goes from them to us, to the people next to us, until the whole forest burns. Soon the violence that has been inflicted on us will contaminate our minds and spread to our bodies.”

It’s just another one of his brilliant speeches, only this time it doesn’t end with hope, but with anger. It settles on Grantaire’s gut like a ton of bricks and now he has no doubt that something bad is going to happen. “And are you happy about that?”

“I’m not happy,” Enjolras spits out, probably disgusted at the idea that he could ever enjoy this. “It is inevitable. If you are still sane- if you can still keep calm about this, then you can keep our morals. Keep the peace, that’s what I want from _Les Amis_. But my mind has already been infected so I _will_ fight.” He looks down at his hands and adds in an almost-whisper that is so unlike him. “And I will burn.”

Grantaire is not a fan of abstract ideas like peace and morality. He likes things he can grasp with his hands, or draw with his pencil. He can draw Enjolras, with his tousled hair, his stained clothes and his ruthless half-smile. But he can’t draw freedom. He can make a charcoal and watercolour piece with Joly, crouching behind a dumpster, and Bossuet squeezing his shoulder, but he can’t paint sadness.

So if he had to chose between people and ideals, he’s definitely prefer painting people. Uneven faces and tangled bodies, dancing on his canvas. He really doesn’t like abstract art, with cubist shapes and heavy brush strokes and all those flowing emotions.

Grantaire bets that if Enjolras cared for art at all, he would be great at abstract expressionism. Unlike Grantaire, he would have no trouble making murals of fire and violent justice.

Among Jackson Pollock’s many paintings, there is one which makes Grantaire think of the abstract idea of happiness. It is filled with strokes of pure white and smudges of bright yellow, each layer of brightness mixing with another to weave a portrait of joy. In the middle of Pollock’s painting, however, there is a stripe of blackness. As if some hand clawed at the interlaced strands of happiness and scratched at its surface, until it reached something less pure. Until the bright and playful colours faded to gray and finally turned black.

This is Pollock’s _The Deep_ and as Grantaire feels more and more worried about the future, about how all these illuminated faces at the _ABC_ are starting to turn grim and serious, he thinks of that painting. He remembers Enjolras the moment he said he was going to fight and burn, can almost see how torn and ragged he looked when his darkest thoughts had been bared and exposed. And Grantaire is scared that by the end of this, there will be nothing left of that bright person they call Apollo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter might have turned a bit more depressing than I had planned. And we're still in the beginning *panicks and adds '#angst' to the fic tags*  
> Like I've said before, the writer does not agree with the opinions of the characters, nor does she support their actions.  
> The title is inspired by Jackson Pollock's 'The Deep' which I thought was really fascinating.  
> Out of curiosity, has anyone looked up these paintings I keep throwing in this fic?
> 
> Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there!  
> An extra comment, Enjolras is political like it's no one's business and he is very intense about what he believes.  
> So I just wanted to leave a small note to say that the writer is not conveying her own feelings about politics or justice through the characters of this story. Plus this is all fictional. So there.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!


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